What The Flock

It’s an ovine world. A sheep’s world, that is (Don’t feel badly – I had to look it up, too). And most of those sheep are white.

The white sheep, they do what is expected. They live the WonderBread life. Work, spouse, kids… They vacation in Florida, they organize church picnics, they coach little league, they go to the gym . They invest our money, clean our teeth, teach our kids, run our cities. They are the bulk of our country.  And they are wonderful. They are the backbone on which our society stands. Yes, they sometimes follow each other off a cliff, but it’s that loyalty that keeps the nation from falling apart in times of strife.

The black sheep… Well, they come in shades from tan to jet, and they are ones exuding a passion. The actors, the musicians and dancers and artists… the ones who make us dream. The cops and firefighters and soldiers… the ones who keep us safe. The revolutionaries, the visionaries, the idealists, the life-poets. The movers and the shakers. And they are wonderful. They expand our field of vision and keep the white ones from becoming stagnant. Yes, the fire inside them sometimes burns too fiercely and they are removed, or remove themselves, from our world. But their legend and purpose live on.

And what of the sheep that are blue? What of the pink ones or green ones? The ones who think so differently, are filled with such uniqueness, that the masses don’t know what to make of them? The ones whose personae are so vibrant that they can only be viewed through photo negatives or cheap sunglasses. The perpetual Rudolphs. What of them? Tho they have a common bond of uncommonness, they are no group, no flock. They are the wanderers, the gypsies, the witches and hobbits and sprites.  No, they don’t build empires or paint chapel ceilings or run congressional committees. They don’t have typical attitudes or ideas or lives. They make us laugh, they make us cry, and they keep us paying attention. And they are wonderful.

I am the zebra striped one with the chartreuse legs and the tangerine tail. Which sheep are you?

Come On

(Another oldie of mine. )
I see the sun setting on the horizon, beyond the green fields and gardens ahead… Yes, hills and valleys and roses and weeds and both stepping stones and some slippery slopes along the way. I can see it all laid out before me.

In my gut, i know that sunset is my sunset. The glow of me as i become one again with the cosmos… And for the first time in my life, i see a clear path to that destination, and the path is wide enough for me to share with others. No longer am i winding alone on a narrow and hidden and sometimes scary path. This is open and airy and free… Free! And so much along the way…

I’ve never seen my sunset before. You’d think it’d be scary. But it isn’t. In fact, it has me in wide-eyed awe. It’s so warm and bright… I am not afraid, but not eager to meet it. I just am comfortable walking towards it… enjoying what i pass on the way. And knowing i’m sharing it with those who see the significance of the destination.

I am being called down this path. Called by an energy much bigger than i am. It comes from within the sunset itself. It’s telling me to come on. To take my time and pace myself, to really see the sights along the way, take the hands given me and use them for strength and comfort when the path gets slippery…. But come on. Come on. It’s time.

And so i go… i set out on this path with my eyes wide open, taking in the beauty around me and loving the glow that the setting sun casts on my path, and my companions, and, i know in my heart, on myself. Bask in the glow. Take all the time i need. Enjoy the walk. Come on. Come on.

My First Night Out As A Single Gal

(This is an old bit of mine, reposted just for fun)

Otherwise entitled, “WTF is he thinking?!?!?!?!”

A girlfriend and i decide to do what single women sometimes do, and meet for a late night drink and nosh at a fun outdoor bar. It seems promising when we get there… even at this hour, it’s mostly people our age.

I rarely go out, and never to bars, so i have no idea what to order. I tell the bartender, “Can i have something a little sweet that won’t knock me on my ass?” He brings me a drink that is exactly what i was after. When i ask what it is, he blushes a little and tells me it’s a Wet Pu***. (Later, after i’d had a couple, i asked him if there was one called a Wet Di**. He tells me what’s in it, and i ask him do we get it free if we can fit it in our mouth all at once? You see why i don’t drink much). Anyway, so we drink, and have some fantastic peel-n-eat shrimp and onion rings and such. We chat with each other, and chat up the women around us. I’m thinking this isn’t so bad. Every man in the bar is pretty much drunk, but that makes up for the fact that they’re all ignoring me.

After a while, the woman beside us has some insightful epiphany and invites a friend of a friend over and starts him talking to us. Before long, he is standing behind us, nose in our ears as he speaks to us (All of you who know me well know that my ears are off limits), hands all over our shoulders and necks (C’mon girls, collective “Ewwwwww”), and – this is the weird part – he is somehow managing to prop his leg up in such a way that his knee is wedging itself into my butt crack. Honey, you could be Liam Neeson, Catherine Zeta Jones, whoever – but i AM NOT letting you stick your knee up my ass. So i keep squirming myself at an angle, but his leg joint follows me like toilet paper on a shoe. My girlfriend, trying to be cute, makes some comment after he asks a question, about how he and i should really have a whole date to discuss it. Bitch! (Not really. Now that it’s over, i think it’s funny too). At one point, i almost start to think that this guy wouldn’t be so bad, except for the fact that he’s drunk and has a fixation on patellar-anal intercourse… and then he starts to tell me more about himself. I figured him in his early 50s, probably working middle management somewhere. Turns out he’s younger than i am, only looks 15 years older, with a job that, while less than promising, is only a fall back because he lost his job recently when his wife divorced him, and he can barely afford the tuition on his 2 year old’s preschool, and the ex still owes him for the business they started but she’s ruining it, and can you hand me that ashtray, and now he’s got his hand wrapped around my upper arm and i’m thinking that may no longer be just his knee. (Another collective “Ewwww”) Oh, my… is that the time? We really must be going…

OK. It’s funny now. I wasn’t going there to find a date anyway. And my girlfriend and i will laugh about it for a long time. But it does beg one to wonder if Darwin is watching all this from the great beyond and scratching his head…

“Male” as a Foreign Language.

I have been married – and divorced – three times. Two of those marriages were of respectable length and maintain civility even now. I have a handful of male friends who are closer to me than most others. I have a son with whom i share a good relationship. And yet i am clueless as to how to deal with men. I can’t speak their language. I’m not even talking the fine art of being fluent in Male. I’m talking Male for tourists here. So much time amongst them, and i can barely ask for directions to the subway.

To make matters more complicated, just like the formal and informal “you” pronouns of most European languages, Male has two distinct dialects: “Romantic Interest” and “Friend”.  And tho you may long to be bestowed with romance, once you’re deemed worthy of the friendly informal, your chances at ever being more than their friend get tossed out the window with the formal language phrases like, “You are really amazing.” or “How did i get so lucky?” They are replaced by phrases that require you to lie with a straight face and agree that the woman who got the role you wanted is perfect. Faster than he can switch from “vous” to “tu”, your hopes are dashed, and not even your aching, begging eyes will change his mind.  Hell, not even a night of award-winning sex will change his mind. You are “tu”. To be anything more would go against the laws of testosterone

They say that there are some men who are bilingual and can speak both dialects at the same time, transitioning seamlessly from one to the other when speaking to a woman who is allowed both roles, but i have never met one personally. I think those men are like Sasquatch or Nessie… Real only to the few who believe to have seen them. Men, God bless them, are limited. One girl, one dialect. Friend or potential partner. Never both. That would be like a fruit that was both chip dip and hair treatment. (Incidentally, if you are reading this and you are male – Avocados are both. Duh)  Anyway, the point is, tho there are men who swear they married their best friend, those men are on the same list as unicorns and flattering bathing suits – on the “Shit I’ll Believe When I See It” list.

Not that i mind being the friend. It’s nice to have a man in your life that you don’t need to worry about impressing with your unceasing awesomeness and sexiness. Or, if you’re like me, giving the impression that you have those things. It means you can be yourself. You can be flawed. You can be real. And they will love you regardless. Just not the way you want them to.

Unique and Unique

November 17, 2009 at 8:21pm

glass shards
beveled edges
no rhyme or reason.
but i want to fit
no gaps, no cracks, no holes
angles and sides together seamlessly
seems unlikely
but i really want to fit

we weren’t carved by artisans
not cut with a template
colors not chosen to be complementary
so we can’t fit
molded by tides
worn by the weather
polished by harsh reality
so we can’t possibly fit

and yet…

sometimes we do
side to side, front to back, top to bottom
two sides, one coin
sometimes we fit

if we grind just a little and
use the glass dust for fill
be gentle with each other
maybe we can fit

Fun With Glue

June 13, 2014

Ready for work! Grab my purse, keys & glasses, and…. Oh, hell. I split a nail. No problem. I just bought a new tube of superglue.

I’m late, so i run quick to the closet, reach inside my tool belt. TaDa! Rip open the package, drop the applicator cap on the floor (happens every time…), and rush to grab it before the dog does. Screw it together…

Holy crap! It’s oozing out like Momma BooBoo’s muffin top! I’m trying to catch it all so it doesn’t get on my new dress. Obviously, this isn’t very smart, and it only takes my fingers being stuck to the tube to figure it out. Where’s the acetone? Oh, in the bathroom, of course. Spin around… Well, kinda. A graceful turn except for my right toes which are now glued to the floor.

I don’t suppose i need to add that this is where i access my multi-lingual supply of curse words.

Plunk down before thinking that i may have just stuck my tookis to the floor. Grab a flat head from my toolbelt and start prying.

How will i explain this to my girls at the nail salon? My foot looks contagious.

Up i go. Thankfully, my dress and cheeks come with. Bathroom. Scrub with nail polish remover. My fingers are separate now, but the texture of day-old flakey pastry. So glad i spent half an hour painting my nails yesterday. I now have the hands of a well-kept leper.

Now i’m REALLY late. But at least my coworkers will get to start their day with a laugh.

Next time, i’ll just use Elmers.

The Little Brown Man

October 28, 2014 at 8:22pm

I kiss and hug my friend, Superman, at the rotunda and we each head down our respective concourses. I am exhausted. My feet hurt. My chest feels like it’s been filled with the stuff that makes fart noises when you pack it into its container. But i’m smiling. I’ve had a most awesome weekend, and i’m on my way home to my weedlings.

I stop at the Starbucks and order a tea-latte-formerly-known-as-London-Fog and a scone. Make my way to the gate. It’s pretty crowded, 30 minutes to boarding, but there’s a seat by the windows. I plunk my tired arse down, smile and nod to the other passengers around me, settle my bags and dig into my scone. It tastes good, but as scones are wont to be, it is rather dry. I start to cough. Take a sip of my TLFKALF, but it’s piping hot, so it doesn’t help. Still coughing. It sounds terrible, all wet and gunky and crumb spewing. It hurts even worse. People are staring. My abs, or what passes for them anyway, are clenching. It stops long enough for me to catch my breath and grab a pack of kleenex from my purse.

Then it begins again. My eyes are watering, my nose is running, and i think i may have wet my pants. This is the cough to end all coughs. I can’t see. I can’t breathe. I’m so hot that i’m certain my clothing has caught fire and my own sweat has put it out. My rib cage is ripping in half and my trachea is exploding. People are picking up their bags and moving away as i cough up Jimmy Hoffa. Pleasegodpleasegodpleasemakeitstop.

And it does. For about 15 seconds.

Then it’s a tsunami of force from my gut so hard that i nearly blow a hole in my sleeve where i have buried my face. All of my senses have deserted me, i most certainly have wet my pants, the other passengers are cowering in the corner no doubt thinking i have ebola, and the ticket agent is on the phone, i am certain, with the TSA. I cough until i there is so much negative pressure in my lungs that if i could breathe, i’d likely suck in the racks of chairs around me with my next breath. I desperately try my drink one more time. It helps. I sip again. it starts to wane. I wipe the snot from my face with my kleenex, stuff all the icky ones into my starbucks bag, wheeze in some blessed recycled airport air and slump down in my seat. Then i hear the voice.

With a backdrop of horrified passengers, a tiny man appears in front of me. Indian, Armenian, something short, dark, and kindly like that. And in his sweet, lilting voice, he says, “I think you need this.”

He drops a Ricola into my hand, smiles with genuine empathy, and backs away.

I am so stunned by the smallness, and yet hugeness, of the gesture that i am at a loss for words. I clasp the cough drop to my chest, look at him, smile and nod, and then gather my things. I will clean myself up, drink my tea, and the world will be right again. All because a little brown man gave me a piece of Swiss corn syrup.

It isn’t the medicine that heals, it is the kindness.